


drowning [in these memories]

by babybirdblues



Series: from the very first  [dicktim week 2019] [1]
Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Age Difference, Grief, Implied Character Death, M/M, bodily injury
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-14
Updated: 2019-12-14
Packaged: 2021-02-26 03:40:29
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,842
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21796984
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/babybirdblues/pseuds/babybirdblues
Summary: The emergency signal should have broadcast by now.  And even if Batman can’t reach him before the last bulkhead fails Arthur would get to him.
Relationships: Tim Drake/Dick Grayson
Series: from the very first  [dicktim week 2019] [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1570708
Comments: 12
Kudos: 121
Collections: Dick Tim Week 2019





	drowning [in these memories]

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so this is for DickTim week 2019, with the prompts time travel and moonlight. I'm posting this 6 hours early because I have no chill. enjoy. also, let me know if there should be any more tags. idk what i'm doing anymore.

Tim notices that something’s changed in-between breaths. The thing is, he cannot even begin to guess what that is. Between the ache in his head and the bleeding from his ribs, he’s trying his hardest to stay awake. It hurts every time he breathes, which most likely means that he has broken ribs -- and he really hopes that he doesn’t have a punctured lung.

The emergency signal should have broadcast by now. And even if Batman can’t reach him before the last bulkhead fails Arthur would get to him.

He hopes.

Drowning -- either from the blood in his lungs or from the water that’s slowly filling up the room -- would be a really shitty way to die. Wait -- he presses harder against the ground as a spasm of pain shudders through his body. The water that was steadily seeping into the room -- steadily creeping up his body -- is gone. In fact, while Tim is cold and wet -- even if his suit is supposed to be waterproof it can’t hold up against a dozen or so lacerations and a sinking tanker -- he’s on the ground. Actual dirt and grass ground.

Huh.

Tim shifts, nearly biting through his lip as his ribs grind against each other. He has to get his arms under him if he wants to get up. It’s more difficult than it should be. 

Gods, he wishes he had decided to go on patrol with Dick.

It doesn’t matter. Not now when he’s already been injured and transported to who knows where.

At least wherever he’s ended up is pretty.

It’s a garden of some sort and the moon is shining bright on the closed blooms. The garden is peaceful, which is not something Tim generally experiences. Whether it’s his day life or night life, most of the time Tim’s run ragged.

He blinks his eyes open -- when did he close them? -- and holds back a whine as his ribs grind again. Tim must have made some sort of noise though, because after a few moments of silence Tim’s ears pick up light footsteps. They belong to someone tall, someone with a solid built frame -- and how are their steps still so soft?. From what he can see the person is fairly bulky; there’s no extra curves. It’s probably a man. Even with all that, Tim can’t see the man’s face; doesn’t know who he is-- even with the moonlight.

“T-tim?” the man steps closer, eyes startlingly blue.

Tim recognizes those eyes -- even if he doesn’t recognize the crow’s feet around them, or the silver that now makes up half of his hair. The man -- Dick, it’s Dick, it has  _ always _ been Dick -- falls to his knees, tears pooling in his eyes.

“Tim. Tim,” Dick reaches out, hands shaking as they cradle Tim’s blood stained face. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I should have been there. I--”

“N-n,” Tim chokes half way through the word, liquid bubbling in the back of his throat. “Not yo-your fault.”

“It is,” he bends over Tim, lips just grazing his forehead. “It is. You died. You  _ died _ and I could do  _ nothing _ .”

“Di-dick,” Tim rasps. “I’m, I’m not dead.”

At least, Tim doesn’t think he is. But that reassurance does nothing to appease Dick. The older man just grips his face harder, nonsense muttered against Tim’s forehead. 

“Richard,” Damian’s voice is soft, as if he’s afraid to startle the older man. “I know that today is a special day; however, I cannot allow you to stay out here all nig-- Timothy?”

Tim lets out a whine when Dick’s nails dig into his skin. He doesn’t know how much time has passed. But it’s getting to the dangerous point. Tim has, unfortunately, been too close to dying from blood loss a few times. So, he’s a little concerned when he realizes he’s having a hard time understanding the one-sided conversation happening between Dick and Damian. And by one-sided he means that Damian is talking and Dick is just, well, holding onto Tim.

Actually, that’s more than a little concerning.

“D-d-dick?” Tim has to pause a few times to gasp in breaths -- another bad sign.

“--o of him.”

“--idn’t sa--”

“--chard, he’s rea--”

Tim blacks out.

<<<<>>>>

Tim wakes up.

It’s a welcome surprise.

Not that he generally doesn’t wake up. When he sleeps he does. Because you know, sleeping leads to having to wake up. So, it really should be that he’s normally awake not needing to wake up -- Tim’s on the good drugs. His brain is generally more methodical, except when he’s past the threshold for full out sleep deprivation or drugged. Considering that he’s just woken up, it’s probably the drugs.

Another point to the drugs is the steady beeping to his right. It fluctuates when Tim attempts to sit up, which, Tim thinks is fair. The pain is his ribs is nowhere near as excruciating as it was before, even if it’s still terrible. The worst thing about damaged ribs is the pain with every movement and the lack of quick recovery options.

“Timothy?”

Tim’s eyes are closed, but he recognizes that voice. Recognized it last night -- or however long ago his last memories were.

“Da-” he chokes, ribs seizing in pain as the force of the coughs raise Tim’s torso off the bed. It leaves Tim breathless, black spots dancing behind his eyes. Something nudges his face and when Tim opens his eyes he sees a straw, but more importantly, a glass of water.

Damian doesn’t let him gulp it down. Probably the best idea, but Tim’s a little annoyed at it.

“Damian,” Tim looks at him then, really looks at him. Whatever has happened to him, it most likely has to do with time. Because Damian is a lot older than he should be -- like Dick was; familiar but unfamiliar at the same time. “Long time no see, I guess?”

Damian’s face breaks out of it’s neutral mask, tears pooling in his eyes. “You could say that.”

The teen, no, the man pauses, eyes shifting to Tim’s heartbeat monitor. It’s steady. Damian must decide something from it; he continues, easing back in the chair and forcing his shoulders to loosen. 

“You were dead. Curry was the one to inform us. The only sign of you in the ship was blood and the surveillance video.”

Tim would have thought that they’d be skeptical of his death until they had a body, and considering he didn’t leave a body -- he thinks; he’s not dead right? -- they should have questioned it. On the other hand, with all the Issues the family as a whole have with death -- yeah, okay. Tim can see it. And he hates that he put his family through that.

“The video can’t have shown my death. I’m not dead!”

The heart monitor picks up in time with Tim’s pulse. 

“No, it didn’t,” there are dark circles under Damian’s eyes. Tim wonders how long he’s been awake. “The surveillance was lost as you were locked in that room.”

The room Tim was left to die in.

Yeah, okay. Tim can see why they’d think the worst. Especially with Arthur arriving and there being lots of blood. There being no body doesn’t make sense -- unless the ship had been fully submerged. There might have been sharks in the water.

They sit in silence for a while. Tim’s focusing on adjusting to the pain -- and pain medication -- and Damian’s just sitting there. Staring at him. It’s more than a bit unnerving.

“How long has it been?”

Damian shifts then, something flickering over his face. Tim tentatively identifies it as distress.

“Twe--”

“Tim!”

A blur of blonde blocks out Tim’s vision. He jerks as Steph’s grip jostles his ribs.

“Steph,” it comes out a gasp of air.

“Tim. Oh gods, Tim.”

His shirt, uh, medical gown is steadily growing wet on his shoulder. Tim pats Steph on the back as best as he can -- his right arm is a tangle of IVs and other assorted wires, so he has to rely on his left, which is currently in a brace. He didn’t realize he had injured either of his arms. At least he still has his dominant one. Well, after he’s disconnected from everything. 

“Hi Steph,” his voice is lost in her hair. Tim thinks she might not have heard him. “I’m okay.”

Wrong thing to say.

“None of this is okay, boy wonder!”

Tim’s left reeling as she pushes away from him -- gasping in pain as she uses his chest to propel herself. His heart monitor goes crazy as he nearly blacks out.

“--erk, I mourned you! I accepted your death! I missed you so much, you ass-”

“Well, our positions have finally been reversed now, haven’t they?”

Steph flinches like he’s slapped her. And maybe in a way he has. He didn’t mean to say it -- knows it’s not something he would ever wish on her. But that childish part of him still hurts. Five years is a long time. But, also, not long enough. The ache is still there, curled deep in his chest just waiting for the moment to unfurl.

He knows she’s hurting but that doesn’t give her the right to take it out on him.  _ ‘Look Dick, I’m taking my psychologist’s advice to heart, yippee.’  _

The beeping of his heart monitor is aggravating and he’d ask to be unhooked but he highly doubts anyone would allow that request. Not right now at least. It’s one of the things telling them that yes, Tim is alive. He doesn’t remember how many days he’s sat in their places, listening to the steady beep after a near miss.

“Look, jus--”

“I’m sorry,” Steph crumples where she stands, hitting the floor and curling her knees to hide her face, hide her eyes. “I’m so sorry.”

Tim looks helplessly at Damian. The kid’s -- man’s -- shoulders are drawn in and his eyes are shut tight enough that the stress lines are visible in his forehead. Steph’s cries are the only sound apart from the monitors. Until Damian sighs and unfolds himself from his chair. He fiddles with Tim’s IV before turning to the blonde that’s still curled up on herself.

“Perhaps we should leave Timothy to rest, Stephanie.” Damian crouches down, hands gently cupping Steph’s biceps. “Father will be home soon. I’m sure that everyone would much prefer Timothy to be brought up to the Manor proper, now that he’s awake.”

Huh.

Maybe his death brought about something good for the family.

<<<<>>>>

Tim wakes up for a second time. And, while he’s still appreciating that he is, indeed, waking up, he’s a little upset with Damian. The kid gave him something to make him sleep. Sure, Tim noticed at the time that Damian was doing something but his focus was more on Steph. Steph, who he needs to apologize to.

“This sucks.”

No one responds. Not that Tim expected anyone to. It’s just, maybe someone would be with him this time -- like Damian had been. Tim’s not even in the medbay. Going by the ceiling Tim would guess one of the upstairs rooms. His room wouldn’t be here anymore, so it’s most likely a guest room.

“Coming back to life generally does, Replacement.”

Tim can’t help the yelp that escapes him. If anyone asks, it’s due to the pain caused by flinching at the unexpected response.

“Gravy and biscuits, Jason!” he raises his hands up, almost to protect himself. “Don’t do that!”

It has to be Jason. Jason’s the only one who has ever called him that, even if it does sound almost fond. And sure enough, Jason’s head swims into view. His eyebrow is raised and Tim swears he’s standing with hands on hips.

“Gravy and biscuits? What are ya, nine?”

“I will have you know,” Tim attempts to sit up. It doesn’t go well, and he’s left seeing stars. “I will, I will have you know that I am mentoring a bunch of elementary school kids right now as Timothy Wayne. The parents frown upon it when you swear near their kids.”

Jason doesn’t respond. He’s not even leaning over Tim anymore. Tim’s sort of scared that Jason’s disappeared on him, but when he manages to roll over enough, he sees Jason sitting in one of the comfortable chairs from the most used family room. He has the most peculiar look on his face.

“I’d forgot about that.”

Right. Tim’s been ‘dead’ for some odd years. He’s not doing anything right now. 

“Damian never did get to tell me how many years I’ve been dead for.”

A pause.

“Twenty.”

Tim knows that shouldn’t surprise him. He’s seen the evidence -- Dick and his grey hair and too much pain behind his eyes; Damian and his towering figure, calm and collected like he hadn’t been the last time Tim talked to him; Steph with her brittle smile and way she favoured her left side, an injury Tim wasn’t around for -- he just didn’t think it would be  _ that  _ long.

“Oh.”

“Yeah,” it’s soft, almost a breath. “Yeah, oh is right.”

Tim doesn’t know what else to say. Knows he wants to say sorry, knows he wants this to be a dream. But even as he thinks it, he knows it’s not.

“Hey, Tim,” Jason never calls him Tim. Something else his death changed. “Look, we all took it hard, but ya gotta understand. Dickie took it worst of all. Didn’t realize things until they was gone, ya know?”

Tim doesn’t. But he lets Jason keep talking. If Jason is talking that means Jason is real, right?

“--st, be patient with him, ‘kay? Ya might not feel the same, ya might not be comfortable but ya gotta be patient with the smothering. It’s a lotta ask, but--”

“Jason?” the door isn’t even open fully. Tim doesn’t recognize Dick’s voice at first. It’s lower and more raspy -- not like his Batman voice, more as if he’s not used to using it. “Any sign of T-tim waking up?”

Jason’s eyes dart from Tim to the door and back. His shoulders tense, and he makes an effort to loosen them, but the tension isn’t apparent in his voice as he leaves the chair. “Why don’t you ask him yourself, Goldie?”

And then it’s just Tim and Dick, alone. His eyes are just as blue as they were that night when Tim (re)appeared.

“Dick?”

The devastation that Dick wore on his face that night is almost superimposed on the Dick of today. Tim doesn’t get what Jason was saying but he wants this look off of Dick’s face, forever.

“Tim. Timmy,” and Dick is falling onto the bed Tim is on -- careful not to jostle Tim too much, so careful like he’s afraid if he’s too rough Tim will shatter into a million pieces -- and his hands hover above Tim’s face. “ _ Tim _ .”

“Hey,” everything is blurring; the burning of tears causing his breath to hitch. “I’m sorry.”

“No, Tim, no,” Dick moves closer, body curling up. Tim’s eye catch on the silver in his hair -- it looks good, looks natural and Tim missed  _ so much _ . 

“You have nothing, nothing to be sorry for. I should have, I--”

Dick’s blaming himself -- for Tim’s supposed death, for not being there, for thinking Tim died alone -- and Tim hates it. Hates that he’s still hurting Dick so many years after he should have stopped hurting him. Tim’s never wanted that. Dick deserves the world.

“It’s not your fault,” Tim manages to lift his arm enough to grab onto the back of Dick’s t-shirt. He catches as much of the material in his grip as possible; if he holds on tight enough, maybe Dick won’t leave when he realizes this is all Tim’s fault.

Tim whimpers as Dick’s hands find themselves in his hair, stroking it softly. The older man -- so much older now; he’s lived years without Tim -- presses soft kisses to Tim’s eyelids, to Tim’s cheeks. 

“Shhh,” Dick presses a kiss to Tim’s forehead, rests his lips there and mumbles soothing words as his hands continue to stroke Tim’s hair.

It takes some time before Tim realizes he’s speaking, realizes making soft whining sounds in-between words.

“I’m here,” it’s soft, pleading. Tim needs Dick to understand that he didn’t mean it -- distancing himself from them, going off alone,  _ dying _ \-- any of it. “I’m sorry. I’m here.”

They fall asleep like that.

They must have. Because when Tim next wakes up, Dick is still there: a familiar, heavy weight against his side. And even if it’s hurting, even if his ribs are screaming in pain, he doesn’t want Dick to go. He can’t let Dick go.

His hand spasms trying to draw Dick closer.

Dick shifts, breath catching as he opens his eyes. They lock onto Tim’s face and he feels flayed open.

“Tim. You’re here,” Dick moves away, arms lifting him so he’s hovering over Tim’s body. “You’re not a dream.”

It’s a desperate plea. 

“I’m here,” Tim doesn’t stand a chance against that desperation. “I’m not a dream, I promise.”


End file.
